


The King is Dead

by CharlotteDaBookworm



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Angst, Assisted Suicide, Canon Compliant, Canonical Character Death, Cross-Posted on Tumblr, Father-Son Relationship, Filicide, Gen, Martyrdom, Not A Fix-It, Prophecy, ish, technically but it's more
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-02
Updated: 2019-02-02
Packaged: 2019-10-21 04:53:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,288
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17636315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CharlotteDaBookworm/pseuds/CharlotteDaBookworm
Summary: He has his own part to play - in this prophecy that he has never wanted for his son.Noctis is the Chosen King, who will die to end the threat of the Accursed and the Scourge. And Regis is the Father, the man who makes the final blow. Even death hasn't allowed him to escape that fate. His son will die to save the world, and he will do so at Regis' hands.Regis has never hated himself more.Or:that scenebut from Regis' POV





	The King is Dead

**Author's Note:**

> I do not own FFXV.

“I’m home,” Noctis - his son, his and Aulea’s beautiful baby boy - whispers, his breath hitching with withheld tears as he rests a gentle hand on the throne, and Regis’ heart _breaks_.

Because his son stands in the ruins of their city and he calls it _home_ , despite the destruction that surrounds him, and all Regis can think is that he has never wanted this for his son.

Not once.

He has never wanted for him to feel this grief, for him to lose so much - one thing after another after another until it nearly breaks him. And he has never wanted for this to be the only option.

Regis had tried to hard to find another way, a way that wouldn’t leave his son or their people to suffer, and he’d _failed._ He failed.

And now here Noctis stands in the rubble of their home, of the city that he had grown up in, and this man - this teenager who tried so hard to be everything for everybody, this little boy with his beloved mother’s eyes, this baby that Regis had cradled in his arms so many years ago - deserves _so much more_.

So much more than prophecy and the fate of the world on his shoulders and the knowledge that he must die for his people to live.

So much more than _this_.

“Though it took me a while, I’m ready now,” Noctis says and there is conviction with no edge of bitterness in his voice and he wants to reach out and pull the boy into his arms once more; wants to comfort his son who is trying so hard to be what the world _needs_ him to be, forsaking himself so easily.

Noctis is ready to die.

His _son_ is ready to die, and he is so _young_ \- younger than Regis had ever dared imagine, thirty in body but a decade less in mind and Six, but Regis had thought his son to have more time than _this_ \- and Regis wants to weep.

To weep for the boy who has been lost to the war. To weep for the King that prophecy has made him into. To weep for the ruler that Noctis will never be.

To weep for his son who will die for the world.

_(long live the king)_

He wants to weep but he will not; he will not make this harder for his son, will not place yet another burden on his shoulders. Regis wants to weep but he is king and father, and he could not stop this, and so he will not cry.

A spark of pride threads alongside the grief as Noctis settles onto the throne - his mantle settling onto his shoulders metaphorically, every inch the King that Regis has always wished his son could be - and there is a short flare of amusement there as well at the sight of his son’s familiar discomfort. Noctis has never liked sitting on the throne, has always found it supremely uncomfortable and had once sworn to cover it in pillows upon his ascension. His amusement fades as Noctis speaks once more.

“I love you all,” he says, the ring growing as the king and the throne feed it with power, and he has to look away because it is now. The moment has come. “Luna, guys. _Dad_.” Regis _reaches_ , pulling on the power and fading into existence beside his son and he still faces away, unable to watch. “The time we had together, I cherish.” Noctis murmurs and Regis.

Regis wants so desperately to turn. To see his son once more, _before_. To tell him that he loves him as well, that he is so _proud_ of the man that he has become, that he is so sorry.

There are a million and one things that he wants to turn and say but, in the end, he is a dead coward who cannot _watch_ as this happens despite the part he plays.

And so, he says none.

“Kings of Lucis, _come to me_!” A sword - his sword - plunges into the marble beneath the throne as Noctis _orders_ their ancestors into existence, pillars of light springing up around them, and he knows that it is _now_ and yet he can think only one thing.

_As though I have ever left_.

Because he has never moved from his son’s side, a part of him with him always despite the main portion of his soul being confined to the ring.

The light condenses into familiar figures and he knows, deep in the bones he no longer has, that there will be no more words spoken. That these past Kings will not hesitate in the duties that the prophecy has granted them.

The first blow still makes him flinch, as it lands and Noctis _screams_. At his sides, his fists clench into fists even as he doesn’t move because he cannot interfere.

No matter how much he wants to.

_(this is his son and he’s hurting and all he can do is stand there and oh, Aulea, Noctis, how he has failed them both)_

Another strike lands. Regis flinches again. His fists tighten.

Strike. Flinch. Tighten.

Strike. Flinch. Tighten.

Strike. Flinch. Tighten.

Over and over it happens, Regis flinching each time, using the short time between each incorporeal blow as the soul was reabsorbed into the ring to try to regain his composure. Noctis’ pained screams fade into grunts as he tires but they all echo through Regis’ mind as his fists tighten far beyond the point of breaking if he still had physical form.

Noctis was hurting and he can do nothing but let it happen - he cannot even watch because he is a coward - and he deserves so much _more_ …

And then there is only them, alone in the throne room.

And Regis knows what he must do. He knows the prophecy, has known his sons’ fate since he was five years old, has known the part that he must play in that fate since his own death. He knows but he _can’t_. This is _his son_. He had been there when he was born, he’d watched him grow, had raised him and loved him and Regis can’t.

He can’t.

This is his son and he can’t do this, can’t _murder_ his baby boy who has done nothing to deserve this - who was _Chosen_ at birth for this horrible fate.

This is his son and he can’t.

Regis refuses to flinch as the sword scrapes across stone.

Noctis holds the sword out to him with a shaking hand, head still bowed from pain and exhaustion, and his eyes burn. “Dad,” he gasps out weakly, begging. “Trust in me.” _Always_ , he wishes he could say but he can’t because there is a plea there and Regis has never been able to deny his son anything.

Not even this.

_(nothing except a long life)_

He takes hold of his blade.

Armour manifests itself around him - and he is glad for that, that his face won’t be the last thing that Noctis sees, that his brave little boy cannot see the tears that he can no longer stop - and he hovers in front of Noctis with the sword held ready to strike.

Regis hesitates.

_(because this is his son and he is going to kill him)_

And then, he **_moves_**.

The last thing he sees, as the ring takes him, is Noctis impaled to the throne _(the throne that he had once sat a toddler age Noctis on as he pretended to be King)_ by Regis’ sword - by his _hand_ \- in that moment he has never hated himself more.

_(this is his fault)_

The King is dead.

_(his_ son _is dead)_

Long live the King.

**Author's Note:**

> Cross-posting this from over on tumblr because I'm bored and making people cry with this is always fun :)


End file.
